CATfight
by Twinings
Summary: Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.  And when things fall apart, boy do they fall apart.  [CAT]
1. The Beginning

_Disclaimer: I don't own most of these characters. Al, Techie, and the Captain are the only ones I'm allowed to use._

_This is part of the CATverse. One of the vital plot points, in fact. And I've put off posting it for far too long. Please enjoy it. Please. Don't make me beg._

_www. freewebs. com/ catverse_

_December, 2015 - shortly before Christmas._

* * *

CATfight

**December 23**

The henchgirls occasionally known as CAT had belonged to the Scarecrow for more than three and a half years (including, of course, the time when they had been too dead to do him any good) when the "Unfortunate Incident" occurred.

Not that everything had been beer and skittles before that. The girls were far more overprotective the second time around. Without their protection during the time they had been "dead," he had taken a few serious beatings, one of which had, in all honesty, come within a hair's breadth of killing him. That had impressed them to the point that they seemed afraid to let him set foot outside the lair without at least one of them, bristling with malice and hidden weaponry, to act as his shadow. While it was a relief to be once again shielded from even the gentlest of love taps from men with names like "Rhino," the absolute lack of breathing room began to wear on his nerves in a matter of days. They had relaxed their overzealous protectiveness after the first few months had gone by without his gaining any serious injuries, but they were _still_ stubbornly unwilling to leave him completely alone for more than a few minutes at a time.

But he made it very clear that the rules barring them from his room still applied, so at least he had a place to escape to when he couldn't stand the sight of their smiling faces one moment longer. And because the Captain couldn't always be counted on to keep her promises—being a firm believer in extenuating circumstances, and occasionally a slave to her hormones—he had taken to leaving peanut butter flavored mochas outside her bedroom door on days when he expected her to go into one of _those_ moods, and she had so far managed not to violate his territorial bubble.

He had done the same to Al and Techie, hoping to put an end to the crying and irrational anger, too, but that had been somewhat less effective. He still found himself woken up once every few months or so by deafeningly loud Disney music.

And today was one of those days.

"Oh, _no_," he moaned as he pulled the blanket up over his head, hoping to silence the sounds of "Cabin Fever." They had bought a new soundtrack. That was never a good sign.

He wanted to go back to sleep, but there was no chance of that now. Even if they went sane and turned the music down, if he didn't wander into the kitchen soon for breakfast, they just might take it into their heads to come and check on him. And even barricading his door with all the furniture in the room probably wouldn't be enough to thwart them in their current state.

He reached for the robe and fuzzy slippers Al had forced on him the first time she saw him walking through the lair barefoot in winter. She had given him a tongue lashing that would have made a lesser man cry. Then she had hugged him. Then she'd bundled him up and made him sit in front of the heater with a cup of tea until he was warm all the way through.

He hadn't even realized how cold he had been until he'd gotten warm.

And that was the way they always did it. They would do something so irritating he wanted to kill them, and then go and prove themselves _right_ by saving his life or making him comfortable against his will. These days, it didn't even seem worth it to fight them.

Maybe he was getting old. Maybe they all were. Even his "girls" were hardly the children they had been when they had first tried to force their love upon him.

He found his glasses and put them on. He really was getting old—he needed a new pair, and soon. But his eyes weren't so bad that he couldn't see the date circled in red on his calendar.

_Next_ Thursday. More than a week away.

So if _that_ wasn't the problem…what was?

He stepped out into the hallway. That was when he heard the screaming. Three distinct voices, raised in three very different languages. He recognized a few random words ("baka" from Al, and "focacta," from Techie) but for the most part, they were going too fast for him to follow.

He _would_ have to get minions who were language buffs. Between the three of them, they could probably survive just about anywhere in the world, not to mention a few places that didn't strictly exist in reality. But they never put those skills to good use, choosing instead to scream at each other in foreign tongues when English just didn't have the words they needed.

The fact that they were all screaming at the same time was a _very_ bad sign, though. The girls bickered often enough, but they seemed to treat every fight like a contest, applauding insults for their creativity and rarely taking anything too personally. But if they were all screaming instead of listening to each other, that meant this was serious. They weren't just trying to top each other, they were genuinely fighting.

He entered the common room, which had been pristine the day before. Now it was a disaster area, with broken glass littering the floor, furniture overturned, suspicious new blood-colored stains on the rug, black smoke billowing in from the kitchen…granted, he had seen it worse, but not often, and never with the three of them standing in the middle of the room, screaming at each other and brandishing a spatula, a coffee cup, and what appeared to be a toilet brush.

He had never seen them resort to physical violence (not against each other, anyway.) As entertaining as that might be, he had better break it up.

"Girls," he said sharply. They all fell silent for a moment, staring at him. Then they all started screaming again, this time in English.

"Squishy—"

"—she broke the—"

"—they had—"

"—and then Al—"

"—we never—"

"—it's not _my_ fault—"

"—Squishykins, listen—"

"—you lying bitch—"

"Shut _up_!"

The coffee cup went sailing through the air, narrowly missing first Techie, then Jonathan. It shattered against the wall.

"Now look what you did!" the Captain bellowed with rage out of all proportion to the situation at hand. He had to wonder if she was more upset by the loss of her Waffle House cup, or by the fact that it had almost hit him. At a time like this, anything was possible.

"What _I_ did?" Al yelled. "_You_ started it!"

"_You_ started it," Techie snarled. "And don't _throw_ things at me!"

"I didn't start this, y'all did!"

"You!"

"Sujatlh 'e' yimev!" yelled the Captain. "This is pointless! Throwing a stupid temper tantrum isn't going to solve anything!"

"So yell about it, Captain! Yell real loud!"

"Don't yell at her!"

"I don't need _you_ to defend me!"

"Fine! Then I'll just—"

"Will you shut up?" Jonathan bellowed. They all fell silent. "What is going on here? Techie," he said when they all started to speak up again. She gave her friends a nasty, triumphant grin. They glared daggers back.

"We're fighting," she said. He waited. No further information seemed to be forthcoming.

"About _what_?"

After a split second of silence, during which he realized that they were going to make him do more than simply regret asking, the three way screamfest started up again. He didn't even _try_ to follow the threads of explanations and insults until Techie shouted the fateful words--

"If it's so damn bad here, why don't you just leave?"

Al was so shocked, she fell silent and stared at _him_ as if she expected him to defuse the tension. The Captain was less shocked.

"Why the hell should I? I was here first!"

Al should have spoken up then (technically, _she_ was the one who had invaded his life first) but all she did was stare.

"Fine! Then _I'll_ leave! You think I have nothing better to do than hang around with _you_ for the rest of my life? Good luck piloting your own ship, Mon Capitan."

"Hey, _I'm_ the getaway driver here," Al snapped. Techie flipped her off and walked away. "Drive careful," Al shouted at her friend's back. "Try not to rear-end any Pintos in the parking lot."

The door slammed.

Al sagged, exhaling slowly. The Captain, on the other hand, was a coil of pure tension, bright red, trembling, fists clenched so tightly at her sides that he could see little droplets of blood from where her nails were digging into her palms. He tried a gentle prod to see if she would snap.

"What was that all about?"

"DON'T EVEN FUCKING TALK TO ME!" she screamed, burst into tears, and ran for the door. She didn't even bother to slam it, just left it standing open.

He turned to Al.

"I should…um…" She moved her hands in an aimless gesture.

"Leave?" he asked incredulously.

"Uh…" She shrugged. "We still…love you. Always. I'm just going to…I'm going to go. There's…you're going to need a new microwave. I'm sorry."

She walked away. Closed the door decorously behind her. And was gone.

The Scarecrow was alone in his lair.

He was…alone.

He went to the kitchen to inspect the damage.

Alone.

This was the kind of morning that called for coffee.


	2. Squishy

**December 26**

So, the girls were still gone, and Crane was not panicking. They had, after all, insisted rather loudly that they never wanted to see each other again.

He just…hadn't thought the triple statements of "see you in hell" had applied to _him_. He would have thought at least one of them would have given him some kind of contact after three days of nothing. Even if they weren't ready to make up with each other, they should have tried to check up on him.

When it occurred to him then that he had skipped three of the last four meals, hadn't had so much as a snack in at least twelve hours, and was probably going to pass out if he stood up too fast, he deigned to admit that they did have their useful moments, and he might not actually be better off without them. He skirted the edges of the concept that he _needed_ them, but turned back for shallower waters just in time.

Needed them, indeed. They were only minions. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He wasn't a child.

But—

_Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!_

He'd grown accustomed to their faces.

_No! Stop right there, Crane. You are _not_ bursting into spontaneous _song_ over those three._

Well, it really wasn't _his_ fault they spent so much of their time watching musicals _at top volume._ It was no surprise he was picking something up from them, if only a tendency to feel irrationally nervy when things were this quiet for this long. It wasn't like he was wearing holes in the carpet, pacing back and forth, waiting for their return.  
At that point, it occurred to him to stop moving and look down.

_Huh. What do you know._

Well…it was a very old rug. It would have come apart sooner or later.

Or else he _did_ want them back. But that was unfathomable. He didn't _miss_ them. He was just…used to having them around. They were _fixtures._

They had sworn they would never leave him again. And it wasn't that he _needed_ them, or wanted them, and he certainly didn't miss their company, but…

It was so _like_ them to go back on their word just when he was starting to…

(want?)

To _expect_ them to keep it.

And here he was already starting to wear _another_ track in a different rug.

Maybe it was time to gather a little information. And dinner. Information and dinner.

It had been a while since he'd made an appearance at the Iceberg.


	3. Captain

**December 23**

One might think that the day before Christmas Eve wouldn't involve quite so much rain. Snow, maybe, but not rain. But the winter had been unseasonably warm and wet, and the rain was coming down in buckets.

Eddie was actually considering staying in that night, but…well, not many people could claim a perfect attendance record at work. And he had already gone to all the trouble of laying out the clues—he couldn't just not show up. Maybe other people could, but Eddie didn't work that way.

Not even if he wanted to.

Quiz and Query might have liked it, though. Quiz had been complaining all day about what the rain did to her hair.

He thought she looked fine. And he might have been a little irritable when he said so; it definitely wasn't in his best interest to change his mind _now_. Not after what Query had dubbed "Bitch Fest Fifteen." There was something about the weather making them all irritable—raining so hard at Christmas time, not even respectable snow. It was so dreary, and…the suicide rate was going to spike more sharply than usual this Christmas, if the weather kept on the way it had been.

"Are we ready to go?" Query queried. He smiled. That never got old.

"Yes, it's about time we got to work. Get Quiz from wherever she's holed up, will you?" He opened the door to check the weather—and nearly stumbled over the soggy woman huddled on his front steps. "Nova? What are you doing sitting in the rain?" he demanded. She looked up at him tearfully.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to bother you."

"_Bother_ me? You have a strange idea of what _bothering_ is." He caught her sleeve and pulled her to her feet. "Come in and dry off. Where are the others?"

She burst into fresh tears, and he nearly panicked. Quiz and Query got angry, but they never _cried_ at him. He didn't know what to do.

But the most logical first step seemed to be getting her in out of the rain.

"Who is _that_?" Query demanded.

"A friend." He led the Captain past her, into the kitchen. She followed.

"What ever happened to 'We have to get to work'?"

"There's time," he said, distracted. "Sit, Nova." Like an obedient puppy, she did, taking her place on his favorite barstool and slumping against the counter, still sobbing. He rummaged through the cabinets for some tea. There was none.

"Eddie, what are you _doing_?"

"She likes tea," he said, as if that explained everything. Query just stared at him. "Tea is _calming_." He took the Captain's hands. She looked into his eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked very seriously. She nodded. "Are the others okay?" She looked away from him before nodding again. "Are you going to make me play twenty questions? It's not that I don't like questions, but—"

"We don't have _time_," Query interrupted. Eddie glared at her.

"Look, if you want to get the job done, feel free to take Quiz and go on without me."

Her jaw dropped.

"_What_? I can't believe I'm hearing this. You know we're not going to share with you if you don't come with us."

"Fine. I don't care. _Go_."

He turned back to the Captain.

Query stomped out of the room, grumbling about how much better things had been before Echo left. He ignored her.

"Sorry," the Captain whispered. "You don't have to stay in because of me."

"I didn't feel like going out, anyway." He turned away from her to get a couple of glasses and his last bottle of Scotch, determined to be a good host, or at least get her calm enough to talk rationally. She squinted at the bottle, unable to read the label without her glasses. "The Whisky That Cannot Be Named," he said with a smile. "Batman never got that one. Some victory, huh? Now I have plenty of opportunity to get cats fed…hi." He laughed ruefully. Maybe he'd been working too hard. He hadn't meant to start spouting anagrams at her.

The Captain smiled at him and drained her glass. Then she flung herself into his arms. He stumbled back against the refrigerator, too surprised to do anything but hug her back. She laid her head on his shoulder and sobbed.

"Um…hey." He patted her head awkwardly. "It's all right. Really."

"No," she sobbed. "I'm doing everything wrong and—God, now I've got you all wet."

"I can change my clothes," he reminded her. "And so can you. Hmm?" He tried to get her to look at him. She wouldn't. "Come on. You must be freezing. Let me get you something dry."

"Thanks, Eddie," she said with a sniffle as he led her toward the bedroom. He snagged the bottle on the way. She brought the glasses. "Thanks for being such a good friend."


	4. Squishy again

His plans for dinner were brushed aside when he saw the Riddler's girls, Quiz and Query, at the bar. If anyone knew what had happened to those three, it would be Edward. And since he wasn't in evidence, his henchmen would have to do.

Crane joined them, earning a knowing smirk from the bartender, who tried to direct his attention to what he could only assume was the standard cleanup crew removing evidence of an unwanted suitor's quick trip through the nearest table.

He ignored that. Not worthy of his time.

Or maybe it was, he decided when the blonde, with a venomous snarl, caught hold of his lapels and pulled him close to her.

"What do you want?"

She was clearly too sloshed to do much damage, but her companion was looking much steadier, and probably had the same kind of thing in mind. He opted for the polite approach.

"I'm a friend of Nygma's." The one holding on to him (he had never bothered to learn which was which) looked doubtful.

"How good a friend?" asked her steadfast companion. Well, he wasn't too surprised that they didn't recognize him out of costume. Not too many people would—_he_ didn't go around with an inch wide strip of cloth across his eyes, and call it a disguise.

"More like a friend of a friend, really," he said. Their expressions darkened.

"So you're looking for the leech?"

"Leech?" he repeated. The one holding on to him let him go to gesticulate wildly.

"Just popped out of nowhere to leeched on—latched on—just calls him Eddums like she's—has no right to do that!"

The bartender, seeing that he was going to be keeping his seat, came over to take his drink order.

" Cognac!" the drunk one yelled, interrupting his request for tap water. "Fire in a glass! Our man appreciates the finer things in life! Cognac all around!"

Crane shrugged. He might as well have a real drink. After all, sitting there nursing "fire in a glass" wasn't too likely to get him accused of loitering, and no bartender liked a water drinker.

"Does this leech have a name?" he asked, not that there was any question in his mind. Who else but one of those three would call the man "Eddums" and drive his regular minions to the bottle?

"Nova," the sober one said, rolling her eyes. "Perfect idiot, if you ask me—well, you know her. Don't you think so? Don't you think so? Don't you think she's a perfect idiot?"

He shrugged.

"No one's perfect."

The drunk one stared at him for a second or two, then laughed raucously and tossed back her drink like a glass of water. Crane started to work much more slowly on his own.

"You're funny. Q, he's funny." She put her head down on the bar and started humming. The other one finished her cognac before Crane was even halfway through with his. She thumped the glass down unsteadily.

"So, what are you, a jealous ex?"

He bristled at that.

"Hardly! She w—used to work for me." He took a lengthy swallow, and looked down in surprise at his nearly empty glass. He wasn't doing a very good job of nursing this thing, was he? "All I want to know is whether or not they're coming back."

"I hear you," the woman said unexpectedly. "Girls like that should learn to go where they're—not go where they're not wanted."

"You're smarter than my minions," he said carefully, trying to correct the bit of a slur that was creeping into his speech. He raised his glass, almost in a toast, not noticing that it had mysteriously refilled itself while he wasn't looking. "You don't stay where you're not wanted. You never promised to stay. You come and go and…go." A splash of icy liquid sloshed out onto his lap. He preempted any further escape attempts by drinking what was left in the glass.

"So, you gonna take her back?"

He stared at the fascinating waves of light reflected in his glass, honestly unable to answer the question.

"Get th' bitch outta my place," the drunk one said (though by now "the drunk one" was very much a relative term) and fell off her barstool. "Get me 'nother drink," she said from the floor.

"I think you've had enough," her friend argued.

"Fuck you, Q. 'Ck you, Q. 'Ckyou, Q!" She laughed drunkenly and hugged Crane's ankle, using his shoe as a pillow.

"Call us a cab," Curls said to the bartender.

"Already done."

Crane found his glass empty for the first time. He glanced blearily around the room and focused on the curly-haired Quiz-or-Query again.

"If she wants to come home," he said reluctantly. "Back! If she wants to come _back_, tell her I don't mind. Not that I need her back. But…if she comes back, I won't…stop her. Tell her that."

"Need her back. Got it."

The women were already gone by the time that sank in.

"Don't," he said to the bottom of his glass.


	5. Eddums

**December 24**

The night passed, and morning came, as mornings always do.

This particular morning was a little different than usual. It was dark--still overcast, no doubt--and the first thing Eddie realized was that he was cold.

Instinct told him to pull up the covers. But when he tried, he found he couldn't move his hands.

Grudgingly, he opened his eyes. It was far too early in the morning (afternoon, he corrected when he noticed the clock, but still far too early) to have to deal with—

Why were his hands tied to the headboard?

With his tie?

Was he naked?

He was naked.

And he didn't have to wonder _why_ he was naked, because curled up against his bare chest was the Captain, wearing his neon green suit jacket and nothing else, and smiling in her sleep.

Maybe he shouldn't have offered her that drink.

He _definitely_ shouldn't have joined her.

The Scarecrow was going to kill him. Oh, he was really in for it. One didn't go around sleeping with other villains' henchgirls. Not even if they were especially charming and badly in need of comfort and--he hadn't expected her to start stripping in front of him, but her clothes _had_ been soaking wet. And she had been...interested.

And Crane was still going to kill him.

"Captain?" he whispered. She snuggled up against him, throwing her knee over his legs. He felt his face go hot. "_Captain_? You need to get up." She stirred sleepily.

"Mmm...'kay, Jonathan."

Eddie sighed. He was a dead man. The Scarecrow was going to kill him.

And if _this_ was what he had to put up with on a daily basis (he thought, somewhat sardonically) it was a wonder the man ever got any work done at all.


	6. Jonathan

**December 26**

All right, he was drunk. He wasn't drunk enough to make a fool of himself, but he should really go before he got any worse. He should still be able to walk properly if he didn't try anything profoundly stupid.

Before he could work up any kind of momentum, something clapped him hard on the back, sending his drink over the edge of the bar. He tensed up, prepared to fight his way out, wishing he had come in costume—and relaxed only slightly when Two-Face slid into the barstool next to him, presenting the unscarred side of his face, with the infamous coin nowhere in sight.

"Good taste, Crane," Dent said, with the kind of slurring that meant that not only had he been drinking, but he had probably been at it for days on end. "Very nice. I wouldn't mind having a pair like that, myself. But those two are _loyal_."

"Loyal," he repeated.

"Must be nice, huh?"

"Nice…"

Dent waved for the bartender. Crane decided against getting up just then.

Well, when a man bought you a drink, it was only polite to take it. When Two-Face knocked back his double standard sour, Crane followed suit.

Oh, and wasn't that a lovely floaty feeling. He was officially _well _past his usual limit now, not that it really mattered all that much. He wasn't going to keel over from two or three—or four—how many had it been?

Five. Five drinks.

He started to laugh. He should have been on Sesame Street. He would have made a much more effective teacher than the vampire puppet. "If you value the tenuous grips you hold on your sanity, children, you will count to four." And then when they were too stupid to finish the task…He laughed again. Better than that stupid farm show. Better by a long shot.

"Wha's funny, Shca—Sca—Profressor—"

"Jonathan?" he suggested, and then, feeling irrationally proud of his ability to force out three coherent syllables, repeated him self: "Jo-na-than?"

Two-Face laughed boisterously and clapped him on the back again, sloshing his whatever-it-was-he-was-drinking all over the bar.

"Jonathan. You're all right."

"I am?" A very surprising and wholly unfamiliar feeling of warmth spread through him at that.

He was…happy.

He was _all right_.

This was…he grinned like a dope. This was what he had wanted all along. Acceptance from a rogue of standing, a man with standards, recognition from a man who wouldn't notice just anyone, clap him on the back like an old friend and call him by his first name…

He frowned suddenly.

" Harvey?" Two-Face looked at him as attentively as he could at that level of intoxication. He felt the corner of his mouth turn up again. First names. First names were nice. Like being human for once. No Scarecrow-fear. No professor-distance. No false respect. No clingy over-familiarity. No…no squishy-ness. Just names. Just normality. Just people. He was people.

"You say something?" asked Harvey. Har-vee. What a funny set of syllables.

What was he saying?

"What do you do?" he asked slowly.

"What?"

"When they go. When loyalty has…limits. What d'you do?" Harvey's head drooped.

"Flip a coin," he muttered. "Heads, you figure it's for a good cause and let her take the money. Tails, you put two bullets in her pretty little head."

"Oh," Jonathan said slowly. That didn't quite apply to _his_ problem. He didn't even have a coin.

"Gem got tails. Shame, really. She was a good kid. Just wanted to pay her old dad's medical bills. Good cause. But you don't argue with the coin."

"Oh," Jonathan said again.

"That's where loyalty gets you."

"Oh…"

"What'd yours do?"

"Oh…what? Oh." He slipped his hand up under his glasses to rub his eyes. His face felt funny. "Nothing. Much. To me. I mean, they just left. Had a fight with each other, so they left…me…alone." Two-Face stared at him, gears working as quickly as they could through the alcohol-induced haze.

"It's not over, then. You'd still take 'em back."

"Yes," he admitted.

"Do _they_ know that?"

"Oh…no…probably not." He reached for his glass again. Harvey moved it out of his reach.

"What are you doing wasting your time here?"

"I…" He found himself distracted by his inability to focus on Harvey's face. His eyes kept sliding back down to the orange half of his suit.

"Fate's nothing but a cheatin' bitch." The sentence started off in Harvey's smooth baritone, and ended up a deep, penetrating growl. "Sit around waiting for things to work out, and they won't. Everything goes all to hell." He sat up straighter.

"Oh? Then what do _you_ think I should do?"

"Go home. Sleep. Find 'em in the morning. Take 'em home and treat 'em right." His voice slid into that deeper register again as he added, "Teach 'em a lesson. Two in the head."

"But there are three of them," he mumbled. Harvey shoved him off the chair.

"Go."

He stumbled toward the door, concentrating on moving in a straight line. He was mostly successful.

Once outside, the first thing he did was stumble on Quiz and Query in the alley. The blonde, who had been so intent on drinking herself sick earlier, was on her hands and knees, dealing with the consequences of her actions while her friend held back her hair.

The steady brunette looked up at him and smiled sheepishly.

"Hi. We missed our taxi. Can we share with you?"

He sighed. Why not? He'd have a chance to find out more about the Captain, and maybe they knew where Al and Techie were, too.


	7. Techie

**December 23**

Under normal circumstances, Techie knew better than to go driving when she was pissed. She also knew better than to push the Frohike to its limits, which were collapsing like Shrinky-Dinks every time one of them took the poor, battered old bus out of its makeshift garage. The last year hadn't been easy on it, and the year before that had been even worse. And Techie could only imagine what the previous owners had done to it.

So, normally, Techie was gentle with her baby, coaxing it along, squeezing out every last bit of juice before the inevitable day when it gave up the ghost, refusing to put it out to pasture before she absolutely had to in spite of Jonathan's offer to help her get a shiny _new_ car that wouldn't kick the bucket in the middle of a high speed chase.

Today, she was angry enough not to care.

So, predictably, today was the day the Frohike died.

She was somewhere just outside the city limits when her tire blew out. Her first instinct was to do something that would result in the poor old VW bus flipping over at least once, followed by an uncontrolled tumble down the side of a cliff, and culminating in a massive explosion that would leave nothing living for miles around in all directions.

Fortunately, her reflexes seemed to have inexplicably calmed themselves. She managed to coast over to the side of the road and stop the Frohike with every evidence of perfect calm. (At least, that was how she would have appeared to anyone who didn't know her. Anyone who did know her would have known it was time to take a step back and let the Techie do her thing.)

It was a relatively simple matter to change a tire, even on something as unwieldy as a VW bus. She was done in a matter of minutes, with nothing worse to show for the experience than a piece of the old tire that had somehow embedded itself in her palm. As she got back behind the wheel, she found herself cursing that little sliver of metal, cursing the road for damaging her tire, cursing the weather for bringing the rain, cursing life in general because it needed to be cursed.

And then, for the first time in the history of ever, she cursed the Frohike.

Techie turned the key in the ignition and was rewarded with a _click-click-click_ as the engine refused to start.

"Oh, come on, baby, don't do this to me." Further entreaties did nothing to improve the vehicle's state of mind.

Of all the rotten times to go dead…Well, it could have been worse, she freely admitted that. This could have happened that time with the Batmobile hot on their tracks, or that time in Metropolis when Al had forced them all to flee the wrath of Lex Luthor. (Well, she had only wanted to pants him. She'd had no way of knowing the man didn't wear underwear.)

Still, even though her life wasn't in danger, Techie wasn't too happy about being stranded by the side of the road with storm clouds approaching. And she didn't even know of any places that could repair her baby—it was a specialty job, and the only place she trusted had gone out of business just weeks before.

It looked like, yet again, she was going to have to stick her head under the hood.

It wasn't that she really minded. She knew her way around an engine, and things didn't usually tend to explode in her hands. But her inner pessimist insisted that something awful was going to happen, whether that was getting rained on, burning herself on hot engine parts, ruining her favorite shirt with oil stains, or something altogether unspeakable that she couldn't even comprehend until it happened. Maybe something involving clowns or bunnies.

A look under the hood told her…not very much. If she had to guess, she would say that there was something wrong with the starter, but the diagnosis would have been so much easier if she'd had someone else to turn the key. Then at least she could have seen what was happening—or not happening, as the case may be. But there was no way she was calling the others. Not that she could have, anyway. Keeping reliable cell phone service was not the easiest thing in the world for wanted criminals.

Focused as she was on the task at hand, Techie almost didn't hear the sound of the car approaching. But nothing in the world could have distracted her enough that she wouldn't notice when it pulled over to the side of the road just ahead of her, and someone got out. She didn't remove herself from under the hood of the car, but she kept a covert eye on the feet as they approached her, odd Cuban heels crunching through the gravel in a way that seemed rather familiar, although she couldn't place it.

She didn't know who he was, but she knew for a fact that he _wasn't_ anyone she wanted around her. She wasn't going to be rude enough to order a helpful stranger to back off, at least not if he was smart enough to take the hint that he wasn't needed. And if he was planning on hitting her over the back of the head and stealing the bus—as she suspected (a little healthy paranoia never hurt anyone)—well, she had a trick or two up her sleeve, and she wouldn't mind beating someone's face in today of all days.

"Hello, there!" The voice was so cheerful, she was surprised the man didn't sprain something greeting her. She had to make her reply extra gruff just to compensate.

"Yeah, hi."

"Car trouble?"

"You could say that." She reminded herself to turn down the sarcasm; she didn't want the poor chipper fool to cut himself on the edge in her voice.

"You don't see these hippiemobiles around much anymore." Techie grinned in spite of herself. He sounded as if he were admiring the Frohike, and anyone with taste that good couldn't be all bad. And he didn't seem to mean her any harm; he had stopped a good way back from her, and showed no sign of coming any closer.

"The Frohike is one of a dying breed," she agreed. The man laughed.

Techie froze. _No_. That laugh. _No._ That cackle. _Oh, no._

"The Frohike, you say? So true. If it's gone and kicked the bucket, I'd be just dee-lighted to give you a lift."

_Okay, I'm just imagining things. I'm going to look at him, and he'll just be some perfectly normal, overly friendly guy. He absolutely will. I just hope _he_ knows that._

Slowly, so slowly, she took her head out from under the hood and turned to face him. The perfectly normal…bone white…ruby-lipped…grinning…green-haired…man in a purple zoot suit.

The bleeding _Joker_.

Whatever words were about to spring from her mouth decided to run and hide in the back of her throat. Her tongue declared, "Goodbye, cruel world!" and plunged to the bottom of her mouth, perhaps never to rise again.

The _Joker_.

She had seen him around a few times, had dealt with his henchmen, had even met him once and carried on a conversation of sorts that had ended with a game of chicken that she _never_ wanted to repeat…but she had never expected to deal with him one on one…alone…no witnesses…no backup…

She was in trouble, wasn't she?

Oddly, it was the memory of the Bat-Blazer's explosive demise that enabled her to find her voice.

"Are you going to kill my baby? Uh, sir?" she added as an afterthought. (It couldn't hurt to try to get on his good side.) He laughed again—a chilling sound that was nonetheless fascinating. She felt her eyes go so wide, they must have been trying to escape from her face.

"A good comedian knows better than to do a joke twice for the same audience." He cocked his head quizzically, still grinning in that same disconcerting way. "Which one are you?"

"Huh?"

_Oh, you can do better than that! Say something clever! Make him laugh, and you just might _live.

"You work for old Scary, don't you?" In her flustered state, it took her a moment to translate Scary into Scarecrow. She nodded. "Which one are you? The one who wrote the book?"

"Oh!" She felt her face going red. _Damn it, Squishy._ She was never going to live that down. "Yeah, that's me."

If anything, his grin widened.

"Well! It's a pleasure to meet the girl who had so many nice things to say about me." He bowed gallantly, and she had the feeling he would be kissing her hand if she let him.

Oh, _God_, was he being charming? She looked around for an avenue of escape, but there was nowhere she could run.

"It's…uh…" What was wrong with her? She couldn't come up with anything moderately polite, much less witty. She should have said something amusing by _accident_ by now, if nothing else.

He didn't seem to notice, though.

He was giving her a look that she didn't quite know how to interpret.

Flustered, she managed to stammer, "What's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?"

He cackled maniacally for a few seconds, then abruptly fell silent.

"Job interviews."

_Oh, no. Is this going where I think it is?_

"The lair just doesn't feel the same with Harley in the slammer."

"So you're replacing her?" she blurted. The Joker flashed his teeth at her in his biggest grin yet.

"You're a quick one. It's too bad you already have a job…or were you leaving the drudgery of the nine-to-five behind when your hippie van pooped out on you?"

Techie didn't know what to say. She might not be a math whiz, but she could sometimes put two and two together and not come up with "cheese."

This was a job offer.

From the _Joker_.

Part of her wanted to jump at the chance to go with him. Another part of her knew the idea was suicide.

Then again, so was turning him down. No one said no to the Joker.

She could try to get out of it gracefully…but for what? True, she would be abandoning Jonathan, but he would probably be glad to see her gone, and Al and the Captain were perfectly capable of mother henning him without her. And she had a feeling that if she saw either of _them_ any time soon, _someone_ was going to end up in the hospital.

_You'll be missing them both in a week,_ said an annoying little voice in the back of her head. Ruthlessly, she ignored it.

"I am on the lookout for greener pastures," she admitted. That wasn't her usual level of banter, but at least she was working her way back up from absolute rock bottom.

The Joker grinned at her yet again—not that he had ever really stopped.

She had to wonder what she had gotten herself into.


	8. Oh, Jonathan

**December 27**

Morning came, as mornings often do.

And that was as far as he got with the poetic introspection before he rocketed out of bed, clutching one corner of the sheet to his stomach and scrambling to put as much distance as he could between himself and the two nude women in his bed.

What were they doing there?! Well, one of them was obviously sleeping, and the other was smiling at him like a cat that—no, like a satisfied—like a –what were they doing in his bed?! What was he doing in bed with two…beautiful…naked…Riddler hench—

Riddler. What was Nygma going to say about this?

"Good morning, stud," the conscious one said sultrily. He could do nothing but goggle at her. She didn't seem too aware of his state of mind. "Last night was fantastic." She nearly purred. "Want to go again?"

He managed to squeak out, "_What_?"

"Don't you remember last night? You weren't _that_ far gone." She stretched, displaying a tantalizing hint of—

Um—

"I should—go," he mumbled. "S-shower."

"Want some company?" He backed away.

"No—thank you. Very kind of you to offer, but—I—um…" He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was no way to move any farther away without letting go of the sheet.

"Oh. You're _shy_." She smiled delightedly and delicately turned away, giving him a chance to make his escape.


	9. Al

**December 23**

Al left with the full intention of coming right back. Hell, she wasn't about to leave her Squishykins alone, even if the others had gone retarded. But after that little scene, she wasn't in the mood for any company, and she couldn't imagine he wanted to be alone with any of them, especially her. Teasing him was one thing, but even she understood the concept of limits.

So she left. He would be glad of the break, she could take some time to clear her head, and at least one of the others would probably be back, all smiles and apologies, by the time she got tired of wandering.

Then she got sidetracked to a rather extreme degree. That wasn't too surprising. After all, she had made quite a name for herself around town since the day she had…"invited" the Scarecrow to dinner.

For this particular adventure, Al had no one to blame but the squirrels.

It all started in the park. Al was just walking along, admiring the beauty of nature and trying to avoid the gangs of marauding children, when the little brown rat-monster threw itself into her path.

Maybe she was a little too used to skinning critters For The Master in World of Warcraft, because her first instinct was to pick up a stout tree limb and beat the thing senseless.

Which she did, immediately. The squirrel went flying. Tiger Woods couldn't have done better.

At the sound of applause, Al turned to see a young man watching her. She bowed to him with a sardonic grin.

"Darn uppity squirrels need to be taken down a peg or two."

"Feel free to join in," she offered. He shook his head.

"I'd rather just watch the master at work."

Okay…that was a little creepy. She hoped he wasn't after anything more than squirrel bashing. In her experience, strangers approaching her at random were not to be trusted.

Another squirrel stopped to stare at her, and she summarily forgot her new friend.

She couldn't seem to match the success she had achieved with the first squirrel, but the exercise was still therapeutic. Her friends would have been both horrified and amused. Horrified, because they were both so thoroughly opposed to animal cruelty (and so was Al, to tell the truth) and amused, because honestly, _no one_ liked squirrels.

Besides, in light of a certain prophecy about Al's future, she thought she was allowed to get in a few licks.

Not that she really…_believed_ she was destined to die as a bizarre sacrifice to an Aztec god…or that her body would be eaten by squirrels at the base of the temple…or that she would be reincarnated as their squirrely overlord and lead them in the coming war and the inevitable destruction of mankind.

She wasn't the biggest fan of mankind, but it was an undeniable fact that squirrels were evil. The bad kind of evil.

Well, as much fun as rodent golf was, she couldn't keep at it indefinitely. By the time she was ready to quit, she had worked up quite an appetite.

She could have gone back to the lair to eat, but she didn't think there was anything microwaveable on hand, and she wasn't about to ask anyone to cook for her. She was half afraid she might find cyanide in her soup.

It didn't matter, though, because there was a gas station nearby, a good one that had never let her down before.

As she started to leave the park, her audience of one waved at her. She waved back, and cringed inwardly when he started to follow her. He was cute enough, but the very last thing she needed was some kind of stalker. (The irony of that thought was not lost on her.)

"I hope you don't think I'm being too forward, but I was thinking maybe I could get your phone number."

"I don't have a phone." He actually looked disappointed, and she felt compelled to add, "But maybe I'll see you around the park sometime. My name's Al." He grinned.

"Cool name. I'm Kirk."

Oh, God, _Kirk_? She was going to have to pass this one on to Techie.

Just one more reason to make up as soon as possible. Not only would the two of them make a cute couple, but if they broke up, she might get to hear Techie say the words, "I hate Kirk."

"I'll see you later…Kirk." She left him behind with a slight sigh of relief.

Inside the gas station, no one even bothered to be polite to her. She was much more in her element, surrounded by jackasses. There was the jackass behind the cash register who couldn't count high enough to give her correct change for a single serving of Easy Mac, the jackass who followed her back to the microwave, staring at her bum, the jackass who knocked her out of the way to put his gas can on the counter, right where it _didn't_ belong, and the jackass with the obvious gun bulge under his jacket who passed her in the doorway as she was heading back out to see if she had lost her necklace in the park.

Al ignored the screaming and the sounds of gunshots behind her, keeping her eyes glued to the ground. She loved that necklace, a cute little plastic mummy she had named Clancy, many years ago. But the clasp did have a tendency to break at the oddest moments.

"Clancy? Where are you, buddy?" she murmured, sweeping her eyes back and forth as she walked. Maybe she shouldn't have gotten so carried away with those squirrels.

"Looking for this?" Al looked up to see Kirk standing in front of her, holding her necklace and looking unbearably smug.

"Hey, thanks," she said. He grinned and shook his head.

"Uh-uh, Al, not so fast. If you want it back, you're going to have to do something for me."

_Jackass!_ She glared at him and held out her hand.

"Give me my necklace."

"I'll give it to you over coffee," he teased. She growled. What an insufferable ass! This was _not_ the way to go about getting a date. Granted, she would have shot him down if he had tried conventional means. But she wasn't in the mood to applaud his creativity and initiative.

Those were only acceptable tactics when _she_ used them.

She made a mental note to steal a vital toxin ingredient and hold it hostage until Jonathan gave her a hug. Or maybe she could make him do a little dance…but she could work out the details later.

"Hand it over," Al insisted. Kirk grinned.

"Make me."

_Oh…them's fightin' words, boy. You don't know what you've got yourself into._

She tried to snatch Clancy out of his hand. He retaliated by holding it above his head.

_Oh, bugger_. There were times she hated being short.

"Gimme!" She jumped for it. He laughed and danced away. By now, she was getting frustrated enough to start a game of rodent golf with his head…his head if he was _lucky_. "Give me my—"

It was then that the gas station exploded.

By now, random explosions had lost their power to startle Al, but she still found herself staring into the towering flames. Such glorious destruction, caused by…by…

_Oh, crap. My Easy Mac. I forgot the water again._

Well, she wouldn't tell her friends about this. They'd never let her live it down. They still hadn't forgotten about the _last_ four microwaves she had demolished that way.

"Wow," said Kirk. Al was prepared to dismiss him as a flaming destruction newbie, until he added, in awestruck tones, "_Kirena hi_."

She stared at him. He spoke Japanese? And he liked fire? Maybe there was more potential there than she had given him credit for.

Too bad she didn't have time to find out more. If she wanted to avoid the cops, she was going to have to haul ass.

"_Hai_, _kirena hi_. Now give me my necklace, please. I have to go."

He flashed her a _killer_ puppydog look, the best she had ever seen.

"Do you have to? I have marshmallows."

At that moment, Al reclassified him from "annoying" to "soul mate."

Well, response time in Gotham was pathetically slow. She would have some time to kick around, wouldn't she?

As it turned out, the cops showed up just as they were eating the last of the s'mores.

As the handcuffs closed around her wrists, Al decided that maybe, after all, there was a time when "just one more" piece of chocolate really _could_ hurt.


	10. Everyone

**December 27, morning**

Jonathan emerged from the shower, and was relieved to find Quiz and Query gone. They'd helped themselves to whatever the girls had left in the kitchen, and left a sink full of dirty dishes for him to deal with, along with the nauseating smell of scorched eggs.

He couldn't help making comparisons. But on the whole, he tried not to think about it.

--

The Captain opened her eyes, wondered briefly how it was that she felt so safe lying in the Riddler's arms when anyone else would have had her too tense to breathe, and then went back to sleep.

They both knew this wasn't forever, but it was going to be so nice while it lasted. They never even knew that Quiz and Query had been gone.

--

Techie was wide awake, which was more than could be said for her companion in the night's guard duty. He was young—an honest-to-god _college student_ interning for the Joker while he worked toward his business degree. What he planned to do with said degree, she couldn't have answered, but she was grudgingly impressed that neither the late hours nor the security guards nor even the Joker himself had killed the intern yet.

She helped him out by making sure that no one ever saw him as anything but perfectly alert during their shift.

He had more than repaid the favor.

--

Al was alone, and not at all happy about it.

Oh, she hadn't expected Arkham to be all sunshine and lollipops, but to be honest, she hadn't quite realized what she was getting into when she'd decided to stay with Kirk and have a snack.

Stupid Kirk. She wasn't going to fall for that one again. Not even if he offered her more chocolate.

This was her first time in Arkham (privately, she didn't doubt it wouldn't be her last, but she wouldn't say so and dash the poor doctors' hopes of curing her) and she hadn't expected to be placed in solitary without even having done anything to deserve it. They said it was for observation. They said it was for her own protection. They wouldn't tell her how long she was going to be there, and they wouldn't give her anything to play with.

She was ready to start tearing her hair out.

For all her antisocial tendencies, Al wasn't used to being truly _alone_, especially in an unfamiliar and thoroughly unfriendly place. She wanted to go home. She was dying for the sight of a familiar face. And she was…afraid.

She wasn't prepared to admit _how_ afraid, even to herself, until that afternoon her lunch was delivered by someone who was not an orderly.

"Squishykins?" she asked, hardly able to believe her eyes. He glared at her, giving a tug on the hat of his pilfered staff uniform so that it covered a little more of his face. She heeded the unspoken warning enough to restrict her voice to a whisper, but she couldn't resist approaching the glass as if to take his hand. To her surprise, he pressed his own hand to the glass, matching her gesture for a moment before abruptly pulling away to slide her meal through the opening.

"Hatter said you were here," he said gruffly. "Are you hurt?" She shook her head, no. He must be so disappointed in her for letting herself be captured. She should have fought harder to escape.

"I'm okay…" The breath caught in her throat. No, she was _not_ okay. "I'm scared," she whispered, hoping he wouldn't be _too_ pleased to hear it.

"Don't be. If you're fit enough to walk out of here, I'll be back by the end of the week with a plan. A _good_ one," he said ironically.

"You mean…you're…_rescuing_ me? Okay, who's the girl?" He blinked in surprise. "Well, no man ever goes this much out of character unless he's doing it to impress his girlfriend." Jonathan's face suddenly, unaccountably, flushed scarlet. Al felt her jaw drop. "You got laid!" she blurted.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away. She felt as if the bottom had dropped out of the world.

"Wait! Don't go! I'll be nice. Just don't leave me here, and I'll never say a word about it. Please!" Reluctantly, he looked back over his shoulder.

"I'll get you out of this, Al. I promise." She stared at him like a kicked puppy.

"You will?"

"Of course I will, you dolt. I wouldn't wish this place on anyone. Not even you."

She didn't quite dare believe him. But she gave him a smile before he left. For the time being, that had to be enough.


	11. The End

**December 27, afternoon**

He would get her out, yes. But how to do it?

He trudged along the sidewalk, kicking up frozen slush, lost in thought.

The Captain was a lost cause for the time being. He wasn't going near Edward or his minions any time soon. That left Techie, wherever she was. She would surely be willing to forgive and forget, to save her friend from Arkham, but he would have to find her first, and hope that she hadn't gotten herself into an even stickier situation.

He could try to make a go of it on his own, but—

A car horn blared, startling him out of his thoughts. He turned to stare at the SUV that he hadn't realized was idling on the street just behind him.

There was a woman in the driver's seat, a little girl sitting beside her, more girls in the back. There were six of them, total, all staring at him with murderous rage.

The driver revved the engine. He didn't know who the hell they were, but they obviously had a grievance. This seemed as good a time as any to run.

And run he did, though not very well on the icy concrete. Behind him, he heard the tires squeal. There was a bump as the SUV ran up on the sidewalk. He dove to the side, landed on his shoulder, and rolled almost gracefully out of the way, chilled by the wind of passage.

Someone screamed, "Harry! They're trying to kill that man!"

_Oh, wonderful! So good of you to notice!_

The tires spun on the ice before finding purchase. The SUV rocketed toward him again, fishtailing slightly.

He wasn't safe in the middle of the street. He had to get somewhere the vehicle couldn't follow, but he'd never make the sidewalk before the valkyries mowed him down. What a time for the neighborhood to be free of traffic.

He dodged to the side—barely. The driver's side mirror clipped his arm, knocking him off his feet. For a moment, he was sure the SUV was going to come crashing down on top of him as it swung around, but the wheels didn't quite lose contact with the ground. He scrambled to his knees, prepared to run.

But run where? There was nowhere to go. There was no time.

Before he could make it to his feet, it hit him.

He probably screamed; if he did, he wasn't aware. The shock was massive, all-encompassing. There was no breaking it down into lesser sensations. There was only explosive, blinding pain. Pain somehow combined with numbness in a way that was very, very wrong.

The impact had thrown him some distance. He was dimly aware of the sound of shoes crunching on snow, shadows falling over him as the enraged driver and her five passengers moved to surround him. He tried to stand and face them. His body would not obey. Even crawling away was too much. The slightest movement sent new shocks of pain screaming through his system.

He lay still, gasping. The feet converged on him. A red high-heeled shoe came down an inch from his nose.

"He's still breathing."

"Not well."

"Not for long, you mean."

Blurring in and out of focus, the red shoe drew back. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He let out an embarrassingly tiny whimper.

The shoe smashed into his face with a sickening, wet snap. Blood gushed from his nose, his mouth, both…there was no way of knowing. His head snapped back; he couldn't help but scream in pain.

More feet were running toward him.

"Stop! What are you doing to that man?"

Another kick to the face. He choked on a rush of his own blood.

"He's the Scarecrow! And he killed our brother!"

Blows were raining down from all sides as the six sisters kicked and stomped with all the fierce passion of…

Females…

Avenging…

Their…

Squishy.

These six were less creative than his three, and certainly less experienced. They thought no further than to kick, tossing him back and forth like a rag doll between them. And by then, he was mercifully unaware of their treatment. The cracking of overstressed bones. The rupturing of a spleen under the point of a three inch heel. The cruel grinding motion of vertebrae no longer intact. All no more than a dream.

He had no time to feel much of their mistreatment, or to fear it, before the darkness claimed him.

One thought lingered for a moment before the nothingness was absolute.

_They won't have Moose Tracks in Arkham._

_--_

Two heads, one light, one dark, bent together, whispering secrets like a pair of teenagers at a slumber party. Most everyone ignored the women sprawled across the floor of the rec room. Poison Ivy watched them with mild annoyance.

"What are you doing?"

Al and Harley looked up at her and giggled.

"Coloring." Harley moved closer to Al, making room for Red on her other side. Ivy didn't accept the invitation.

Coloring. How typical. Wasting good trees on a stupid coloring book. Even she could accept the value of books, in spite of the sacrifice literature demanded from her kind, but what good was the childishness of putting crayons to paper? Honestly?

And now that the scare-girl was allowed to mix with the other inmates, she was only going to encourage Harley's silliness. Ten minutes out of solitary, and they were..._giggling._

They were coloring a picture of a circus scene. Harley, predictably, was applying green to the hair of a clown. Al had created a gaping neck wound, complete with realistic blood spray, for one of the trapeze artists, and was putting a bloody axe in the other one's hand. Ivy couldn't help but smile.

"The guards are going to look at that after you go," she warned. "They'll have you drugged to the eyeballs and in intensive therapy for a year."

Al cocked her head to the side, contemplating her picture. Then she shrugged and turned the axe into a pretty flower.

"Thanks," she said.

"Hey, it's your first time in. You need all the help you can get." She sat down in front of the two gigglers, lotus position. They both grinned up at her.

"Thanks," Al said again, sincerely.

All right, that was enough of that. It wasn't like she was pointing the way to her favorite escape route. Besides, even if this hench wench couldn't find her own way out, she wasn't alone. Surely the Scarecrow would be mounting some kind of rescue attempt any minute.

Right on cue, Ivy heard a commotion from the hall. She turned to watch through the open door.

It wasn't what she expected. Doctors…a stretcher…something _on_ the stretcher that they were trying to hide. She caught a glimpse of part of the face, so battered as to be barely recognizable.

Al recognized him.

Ivy took a look at Arkham's newest inmate, and was disappointed to see that she looked just like Harley whenever someone brought the Joker in beaten to a bloody pulp. Teary with a chance of vengeful doom.

"Hold her," Ivy ordered quickly. Harley pounced on her friend, pinning her arms behind her back. Al tried to struggle out from under her.

"Let me go! I have to help him! Squishy! _Squishy_!"

"You _can't_ help him," Ivy said harshly, trying to cut through the distraught woman's panic. "If you go running out there, you'll just get thrown back in solitary, and they'll never let you near him again."

"I don't care! He needs me _now_!" She rammed the back of her head into Harley's nose, shoved her stunned companion away, and sprang for the door, screaming, "Squishy!"

Of course, one of the guards caught her around the waist as she went through the door. Like an alleycat she twisted in his arms, kicking, biting, clawing, yowling with increasing fury as she watched the one so in need of her protection disappear down the hall. A few occupants of the recreation room burst into spontaneous applause when she tore a chunk out of the guard's arm, staining her lips with what was definitely not the evidence of a cherry sucker.

If there had been anyone available to sedate her, she would have been facing a needle right about then. Since that was not the case, the second guard took her down with a nightstick instead.

Harley and Ivy shared a knowing glance as the limp body of their erstwhile companion was carted away.

"Squishy, huh?"

"Stupid nickname," said Harley.

Ivy just raised an eyebrow and said, rather coolly, "I'm sure Puddin' would agree."


End file.
